


Redemption

by McVetty



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cancer, M/M, Sickfic, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McVetty/pseuds/McVetty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes came back from the dead. Maybe because I willed him to and maybe because he wasn't really dead. He couldn't have chosen a more inopportune time. I'm dying, and I can't let him know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was missing. _Again_.

In the recent months since his return, he has gone missing seven times. I have spent long hours attempting to figure him out but he simply refuses any sort of talk, and in fact prefers to act as if he never died at all. As one can imagine, this does nothing for my condition. Not a damn thing. And, really, I'm not sure Sherlock knows. He was gone for three years, three very long years, and I can not be sure he kept tabs on me for those three years. He may not know that I went back to my therapist, or that I once tried killing myself. It is harder to read him now than it was before he died, and I really can't be expected to know what is going on in his mysterious mind. Though, then, neither can he know what is going on in mine. 

Perhaps he does know. It is like him to not talk about these things.

During the three years that Sherlock was gone, while we all thought him quite dead, I fell into somewhat of a depression. I failed to update my blog, I failed to go to my therapist, I failed to do the most basic of human functions. I spent days locked up in 221B, laying on the couch, sitting in my chair. If it weren't for the tea Mrs. Hudson insisted on serving me, I perhaps would have died in that flat. 

To make an incredibly boring, long story shorter, I one day wound up on the bridge over the Thames and jumped.

The papers said I jumped. Really, I slipped and knocked my head against the rail, and it was quite a mess. Lucky for me, at that particular moment, there happened to be a bus full of American tourists coming across the bridge. One of them saved my life, but I was in the hospital for some time. While there, the doctors found cancer in my blood. I didn't question it, though I did wonder for a time what higher power could possibly want me to survive drowning only to die a slow, agonizing death  by chronic Leukemia.

The doctors suggested chemotherapy, they put me on a regimin of pills, they told me to come back later. I told them to sod off and returned to Baker Street to sulk in my failed suicide. In my seemingly infinite luck, the papers caught no wind of my cancer, and instead ran the story as a mentally unstable war veteran. Considering Sherlock Holmes returned three weeks later, I am grateful for the false story. 

The tale of Sherlock's return is, perhaps, for another day, if I have the time. It is odd, to me, that my diagnosis of Leukemia has not given me a pressing sense of it, of time. I do not hurry myself, despite the clock ticking its hands closer to my death. I am, I think, at peace with the idea that I will no longer exist. I still have not been able to tell Sherlock, nor do I think I wish to. Mrs. Hudson keeps my visits to the doctor under tight wrap, and I feel confident that Sherlock's homeless network leaves those particular visits out of their reports.

Again, Sherlock was missing, and I was becoming more irritated with him. After three years of thinking him dead, I would like to know where the man is. Having to constantly walk the city in search of him, talking to the homeless, gets on a man's nerves.

It was today, of all days, that he has chosen to go missing. I had a doctor appointment, and rather than knowing for certain Sherlock would be in his chair brooding, I had no bloody idea where the man was. It was all very stressful.

I grabbed my empty pill bottle, pulled on my coat, grabbed my cane, and made to leave. Mrs. Hudson found me first, placing a wrinkled hand on my arm.

"I'm sorry, dear, I don't know where he's off to now," Mrs. Hudson said.

"That's quite alright," I replied, the pill bottle clutched tightly in my hand. "Please, keep him here if he shall return before I do."

"Of course, dear," she said with a smile.

I walked out the front door, leaning heavily on the cane, and hailed a cab. To my knowledge, not a soul followed me to the office. Before limping inside, I turned to look down the streets, if only to make sure again. Such trips to the doctor, increasing in frequency, required a certain level of discretion. Sherlock had his informants in every corner of the city, and I couldn't be sure this was an exception. If anything, my resolution to keep Sherlock in the dark about my condition only increased with every day he didn't know.

At the counter, I set the empty pill bottle and waited patiently for the girl to respond to me. It took her several long moments, during which I had to wonder if she was perhaps a mannequin, before she turned her head and acknowledged me.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Uh, yes, I'm here to see Doctor Sherry," I said, shifting my weight with a wince.

"One moment," she said, turning back to her computer. She picked up the phone, dialed a number faster than I could see, and waited for the line to pick up. "Your ten o'clock is here." She paused, then set the phone back down and pointed to the right. "Down the hall to the third door."

I wanted to ask if it was a new procedure, but I didn't have the woman's attention for longer than it took for her to know I knew where I was going. My limp was only getting worse, which I attributed to the pills and the Leukemia. If Sherlock knew nothing of my disease, he certainly knew my limp was back. At that moment, as I knocked on the door of Doctor Sherry's office, I made a resolution to find Sherlock and confront him about the three years he decided to play dead.

"Come in," Sherry responded, her voice muffled through the door.

I stepped in, closing the door behind me, and looked up in shock.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, a smile that I couldn't quite read on his face. "I was just speaking with Doctor Sherry about your options."

I imagine, at that moment, I looked somewhat like a fish attempting to breathe out of water.

"Please, sit," Sherlock offered, not unkindly, as he patted the seat beside him.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, making my way shakily to the seat and collapsing into it. "When did you..."

Sherlock's piercing eyes told me all I needed to know. Don't ask questions John, I could almost hear him say.

Sherry interrupted our unexpected reunion. "John, I thought you had no family. I was very surprised when Mr. Hawkes came into my office. It is good to share with people close to you."

I may have rolled my eyes.

"Mr. Hawkes and I have been discussing treatment options. I know you have refused in the past, but we wanted to speak with you on it."

"Really?" I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

"John, please," Sherlock said softly.

I had never heard that tone in his voice, and it surprised me sufficiently to quiet me. 

"Now, at the stage you are in, we can start chemotherapy, in addition to the drugs you have been taking. This is the most common course of action. Another option is Radiation therapy. I know we have gone over these before, but I hope to give both of you the information, and you can go home and think about it together," Sherry said, pulling papers from her desk. She laid them out before us, pointing her delicately slim finger at each as she spoke. "This is the packet on Chemotherapy, and this is the packet on Radiation. There are also several clinical trials you may be interested in joining. We already ruled out bone marrow transplants with Mr. Hawkes, who very chivalrously offered. Unfortunately, his blood type is not a match."

I stared at the packets. The same packets I was faced with six months prior. The same packets that likely wouldn't change my mind. "When would you like an answer?" I asked.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Sherlock turn towards me.

Sherry organized the papers into a folder. "As soon as possible, Mr. Watson. Your last exam showed an increase, and we would like to get it under control sooner than later... With your permission, of course. No one can make you choose a treatment option."

"Thank you," I said, not knowing what else there was to say.

"If we find another donor," Sherlock started, his attention back on Sherry. He sat with his elbows on the arms of the chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Is it possible to do a bone marrow transplant, then?"

"If the donor has a matching blood type and is willing, we will do everything in our power."

"And if John chooses not to pursue a treatment?" Sherlock asked, an unusual strain in his voice.

"It is hard to say," Sherry answered uneasily. "Six months ago, we had a target treatment date, and had we followed that it would be a far better forecast. As it stands, we gave John Watson six more months, without treatment. With treatment, it is likely he will see six more years."

Sherlock pushed his chair out, getting to his feet in a fluid movement. "Thank you for your time, Doctor Sherry. John, I will be waiting for you in the lobby."

Sherlock's pale, boney fingers brushed my shoulder as he left the room. I tried not to show the shiver that trickled through my body at such a strangely intimate gesture from the consulting detective. The door closed quietly behind him, and I stared at the desk.

"John?" Sherry asked.

"Yes," I answered, looking up.

"I need to fill out a new prescription for you, if you plan on Chemotherapy. Will you look these over tonight and call me in the morning?"

"Yes, of course."

Sherry scribbled on a slip of paper. "I know it is hard, but you aren't alone. Mr. Hawkes is a very nice man, I'm glad you found each other."

I opened my mouth to object, but far too many times I've been taken as gay, and so I simply closed my mouth and nodded in agreement.

Sherry handed me a slip of paper. "I wrote to refill your prescription. Bring this to the girl at the front and she will fill it for you. Please call tomorrow, John, I look forward to treating your Leukemia properly."

"Thank you, Doctor Sherry," I said, standing from my chair stiffly. I gathered the papers, not looking at them. "I will give you a call tomorrow afternoon."

The motions were the same as they had been six months ago, three months ago, they were always the same. I bit back the bitter resentment of the cruel turn my life had taken and left the room with barely enough dignity to spare. The woman at the counter filled my prescription as listlessly as she pointed me to my intervention. I refused to look at Sherlock, who stood tall and straight facing the bay window, hands folded behind his back. How long had he known without telling me? Moreover, who had he told, and who would I have to speak to? It was my incredibly careful nature that had led me to be wary of who I spoke to, and yet somehow, it had leaked.

I didn't tell Sherlock I was leaving, I was too angry with him. Angry that he died three years ago, angry that he expected me to accept him back without question, angry that he found out the one secret I had worked to hide. 

I hailed a cab, and as I reached for the door of the black vehicle that pulled up, Sherlock's hand reached it first. He pulled it open briskly, and though I refused to meet his gaze, he had no problem searching for mine. Grudgingly, I got into the cab, setting my papers, pills, and cane pointedly between myself and the consulting detective.

Sherlock almost closed the door and accepted my refusal to speak to him, but at last moment he got in.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock instructed.

The cab began rolling.

"John," Sherlock said, a question lingering in the air.

"I don't wish to speak to you," I answered.

"If it would please you to know, I only found out two months ago," Sherlock offered.

"That's nice, Sherlock."

"At least you're calling me by name."

"The doctor thinks we're gay," I informed him. "Are you aware?"

"Quite," Sherlock answered. "It was the only way to know what was happening to you."

"You couldn't ask me?"

Sherlock paused. "If I had asked, you would have denied it, and it isn't in my style to ask questions."

'No, you would much rather impress and shock people."

"It is much more my style," Sherlock conceded. I didn't respond, and he seemed to dislike the unusual quiet between us, because he continued on. "John, you know you have to pursue a treatment."

"Do I?"

"If you don't, you will die."

If I hadn't known Sherlock so well, I would have said he wasn't very thrilled with the prospect of my death. I almost wish I had known him less, for the very real prospect of my very inevitable death seemed to shake him in ways nothing before had seemed to. In response, I sighed, unable to bring any words to surface.

He had no problem filling the silence.

"I will speak with Mycroft about the bone marrow transplant," he said. "There must be someone in his department that shares the same blood type."

"I'm sure there are."

Sherlock let the silence linger.

Only for a short while.

"Please help me, John."

He lifted his hand, as if he wanted to reach out and touch me, though he thought better of it and set his hand in his lap. The ride to 221B was quiet and awkward, and I fled the confines of the cab as soon as humanly possible. Mrs. Hudson opened the door, noticed the look on my face and the company in which I returned, and let me by. I took my things and myself into my room and closed the door.

For the time, my talk with Sherlock was over, and I was left alone to think.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how many chapters, or how long, this is going to be. I'm going to continue writing as long as the inspiration is there. I am devoid of a computer or proper internet currently, so my iPod has become my best friend. Typing on this thing is quite hellish, though. Please enjoy.

It was sometime in the night when there was a creak outside my door. I hadn't yet fallen asleep, though I had at least gotten as far as my bed. More often than not, I stayed awake hours on end, staring at the ceiling. Most nights, before Sherlock returned, I would leave my room to clean the flat, or perhaps organize his things and page through folders of his notes. I never truly put his papers and experiments away. Except the head in the refrigerator, and the several other human body parts that I regrettably informed him of when he returned (and after I punched him). 

However, tonight, and for the last six months, I have confined myself to my room on my insomnia-riddled evenings to spare both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson of my incessant wanderings. Up until this night, it seemed to have done the trick. I heard the floorboard creek once more, and the knob on my door clicked softly.

"Sherlock," I said tiredly, not bothering to move. "Are you going to skulk outside my door or ask to come inside?"

He didn't respond at first, and I thought suddenly that I might be imagining things. Then he cleared his throat.

"May I?" he asked through the wooden barrier.

 

"If you'd like."

"I would."

There was a long silence.

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock."

"The door is locked."

I sighed, pulling myself from the bed. Before walking to the door, I made sure to pull my covers back, to at least give the impression that I had been attempting sleep. If it would pass the normally observant detective's inspection was another thing. I unlocked the door and pried it open, returning to the bed as I scratched my backside. Company be damned. 

Sherlock moved into the room at his own pace, as if testing the waters for a shark. I sat on the bed, running my hands over my face and looking up at him. While he wasn't an entire deal taller than myself, when seated it was much different. I questioned my decision to sit as soon as he stepped into the room and stood at the foot of my bed quietly.

"Is there something you needed?" I asked.

"Earlier today, I didn't mean..."

"Of course you didn't," I replied briskly. I didn't want to hear an apology from a man who failed to ever make them. I also didn't want to talk about the doctor visit, or how he came to find out. Maybe I had hoped he would come in to inquire about a case, but life had not been so easily restored once he returned to Baker Street.

"John, listen to me," Sherlock commanded sternly.

Considering I had never heard him speak in such a rough manner, I gave enough pause to follow his order.

"You are dying, John, and if you don't choose treatment, you will undoubtedly perish. I... Do you know how hard it is to find a flatmate that keeps your room for three years?" he asked. 

"It wasn't that long," I replied bitterly.

"I know you're stubborn, and I know you're mad at me, but death is a terrible way to prove your point, don't you think?"

"How long have you been thinking about this?" I asked.

Sherlock allowed himself a thin smile, that quirk at the corner of his lips that, three years ago, I loved so well.

"Fairly long, I take it," I said.

"I have wondered how to talk to you about this," he said.

"You've done a bang-up job of it."

"I'm afraid so, John, but I couldn't wait any longer. They've put you on new pills, and you've been going to the doctor more frequently. I could only deduce your condition was getting worse."

"As you can see, I am clearly still living, in front of you, and dearly lacking sleep."

Sherlock's eyes darted to the bed beside me. "You weren't sleeping, I can still see your heel prints on the top cover."

I didn't comment. The long pause between us was only interrupted by my breathing. I could scarcely hear Sherlock's. 

He surprised me when he stepped around the foot of the bed, seating himself beside me. He was an incredibly delicate man, I had always been surprised by his grace. His hands folded in his lap, the fingers of his right hand stroking those of his left. He sat with barely his weight on the edge of the bed, ready to leave at any moment.

"I don't do these things well, I have never harbored a great love for anyone. Not even Mycroft. Not exactly." Sherlock paused, as if his words were too heavy for his lips. "John, please believe me when I say this. I care for you, very deeply, and to lose you might very well break me."

I closed my eyes. These were the kinds of thing I wanted to avoid when the doctors gave me the news. The tearful goodbyes and the constant cradling. I was a soldier. All these things, I wanted to tell him. Instead, I swallowed those words. I knew Sherlock more than anyone other than his own brother. I couldn't dismiss his seldom-seen emotions; that alone would break him. 

"I'm sorry," I said. It was all I could think of.

"Then don't die," Sherlock said.

"I can't decide that, Sherlock."

"You have the option to decide that, right now," he argued. "Go through treatments. Cooperate with Doctor Sherry. Go to a specialist. Money is not an obstacle. I will help you get better."

"Why? For what purpose?" I asked bitterly. "Do you intend to fake your death again?"

Sherlock, goodly and honestly, looked hurt. "No."

I grudgingly sighed. "I'm sorry, I should have..."

"No John, I am sorry for faking my death. I had no other option. I wanted to contact you, but I couldn't risk Moriarty's men going after you."

"Three years and six months, and you just apologize for that now?"

"You didn't tell me you were dying."

"It's been six months! You just came back into my life like you belonged there! Sherlock, you were dead! I moved on with my life!"

Sherlock lifted his hand, as if to calm me with a touch, but I stood from the bed, throwing my hands up in anger. He stood after me, his hand still reached out to me, as if he really and truly intended to comfort me. Only when he placed his hands over my arms did I realize I was shaking.

"You didn't move on. Mycroft kept tabs on you when I couldn't," Sherlock said quietly, hands pressed against my arms as if his very touch was the only thing holding me together. Maybe it is.

"Sherlock."

"John."

"You're touching me."

"I am."

I looked at his shoulders, tense and rigid, his hands stiff against my arms. "You don't do this much."

"No, not exactly." He paused. "Is it helping?"

My lips twitched, resisting a smile. "A little, yes."

"Good, good, that's... that's good."

He patted my arms awkwardly, took a step back.

"Work on that for next time," I said.

"So you'll begin treatment?" Sherlock asked.

"I'll think about it."

"If I work on the quality of my hugs..."

"That wasn't a hug," I said, herding Sherlock from my room. "I'll see you in the morning."

"I count on it, John."

"I know you do."


End file.
